Night Fighter, by Cecil F. “Jimmy” Rawnsley and Robert Wright – 1957 (June, 1967) [Edward I. Valigursky]

A very nice cover by Edward I. Valigursky for Ballantine Books’ 1967 edition of Cecil F. Rawnsley and Robert Wright’s Night Fighter, bearing the artist’s surname at the lower right…

Though the depicted aircraft are (in theory) Mosquito night fighters of Number 85 Squadron RAF, close (well … very, very close) inspection of the plane at the lower left reveals that it bears the code letters “ED I” on its fuselage.  Not so coincidentally, this matches the initials of the artist’s given and middle names: “Edward Ignatius”!  In reality, the squadron code carried by No. 85 Squadron’s warplanes was “VY”. 

Edward Valigursky was an enormously productive and versatile artist, his oeuvre encompassing the fields of military aviation, space exploration, and adventure.  As for the realm of science fiction, during the mid to late 1950s his work frequently appeared as cover art for Amazing Stories and Fantastic, interior art, and, the covers of Ace paperbacks.

Flight Lieutenant Cecil Frederick “Jimmy” Rawnsley

References

Hess, William N., The Allied Aces of World War II, Arco Publishing Inc., New York, N.Y., 1966

Flight Lieutenant Cecil Frederick “Jimmy” Rawnsley, at Wikipedia

Flight Lieutenant C.F. Rawnsley (portrait), at “The Royal Air Force 1939-1945, Vol. I: The Fight at Odds”, at ibiblio.org/hyperwar

Number 85 Squadron Royal Air Force, at Wikipedia

Edward I. Valigursky

Biography, at Pulp Artists

Biography, by Arnie Fenner, at Muddy Colors

Examples of his science fiction art, at 3rdART

Some GGA (“Good Girl Art”), at Grapefruit Moon Gallery

2018 08 31 – 2018 10 14

Morotai – A Memoir of War, by John S. Boeman – 1981 [Terrence Fehr]

The war was over – I had survived. 
I was home, safe in the land of my birth. 
Only my innocence had died, and with it my youth. 
Fair or not fair, right or wrong, whether I wanted it or not, whether anyone liked it or not
– I had a life to live. 
I was twenty-one.

In a number of previous posts, I presented cover art for books authored by veterans of the Second World War who’d served as combat fliers in the United States Army Air Force, and, Royal Air Force.  Regardless of the different personalities of these authors; regardless of the differences in military duties of these men and the theaters of war in which they served; regardless of their styles of literary expression, the central and consistent tone emerging from these books is one of contemplation – deep and profound contemplation – and seriousness.

For all of these men, the constant threat of injury or death, comradeship and the inevitable loss of comrades (which these men directly witnessed), the numbing routine – psychologically and physically – of combat flying, and, the inherent unpredictability of the future, were transformative at a level which the written word can sometimes express quite clearly, and at other times, only indirectly.

(But, you can even learn something from “indirection”!)

In this context, John Sigler Boeman’s memoir Morotai: A Memoir of War, is superb, in terms of military aviation history, and in a larger sense, as a work of literature.  Boeman served as a B-24 Liberator pilot in the 371st Bomb Squadron of the 13th Air Force’s 307th (“Long Rangers“) and later as a career Air Force officer, flying C-54s and B-52s, serving in both the Korean and Vietnam Wars.  He passed away at the relative young (these days) age of 74 in 1998, seventeen years after the first publication of Morotai.

Morotai is vividly descriptive, whether in “capturing” the personalities of Boeman’s crew members (the men are presented honestly and not as caricatures, as occurred – in a different vein – in the ridiculously overrated television series M*A*S*H, the animating ideology of which was always apparent…), living conditions at Morotai (an island in eastern Indonesia’s Halmahera Group), or the psychological and physical challenges and complexities of combat flying.  An unusual aspect of the book is that an underlying theme of uncertainty – about the technical skill and ability of the author and his crew; about the nature of the military effort their Squadron and Group were tasked with; about the “future” immediate and the “future” distant – hovers throughout its pages. 

The literary tone of the book probably emerged from what seems to have been Mr. Boeman’s inherently contemplative, introspective disposition.  But, it also arises from the book’s final two chapters, in which the author recounts – with utter and remarkable candor – the take-off crash of his bomber on May 29, 1945, an accident which claimed the lives of four of his crew members, and eventuated in the disbandment of his crew as a unified group of aviators.  By retelling his story chronologically and placing the jarring account of the take-off crash in the book’s final pages, one gets the impression that structuring the memoir in this manner may have been a kind of literary catharsis for Mr. Boeman: A catharsis entirely understandable, and deserving of respect.

The book ends with Boeman’s departure from the 371st Bomb Squadron and return to his home in Illinois.  There he would be, during Japan’s surrender several weeks later.  

So… the dust jacket of Morotai (Doubleday first edition) appears below.  Strangely, the illustration depicts a B-24D Liberator in desert-pink camouflage, rather than the later-model natural metal finish Liberators actually piloted by Boeman:  Ooops…  Somebody in Doubleday’s art department should have paid more attention!

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Here’s a review of Morotai by Captain Carl H. Fritsche that appeared in Aerospace Historian in Fall of 1981.

“John Boeman, a farm youth from Illinois, enlisted in the Army Air Corps and he was inducted into the military service in March 1943.  Morotai is a book of his experiences in the WW II cadet program and of his 20 combat missions as a B-24 pilot in the Southwest Pacific Area.  The book is an in-depth analysis of the author’s thoughts, hopes, frustrations, successes, and failures during the global conflict.

John Boeman is an excellent writer.  There were no 1,000-plane raids staged from the small island of Morotai, so the author takes you with him on each of his small squadron’s flights to bomb a single bridge, ship, or gun emplacement.  As Boeman gains confidence in his ability as a combat B-24 commander, his career is shattered by his own “pilot error” takeoff crash in which several of his crew members are killed.  The psychological impact of the plane crash was devastating and Boeman was sent home.  WW II ends as Boeman returns to his home town and Boeman completes the book with an excellent analysis of his success and failure in the conflict.

Morotai is a good book about one man’s life and his one failure as a plane commander.  The publisher’s note in the back of the book is important as John Boeman did not allow his own failure as a pilot to defeat him.  He returned to the military service and served many years as a B-52 plane commander as well as many other very important assignments before retiring from the Air Force in 1972.

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Morotai, first published by Doubleday in 1981, was republished in an illustrated edition by Sunflower University Press in 1989.  This second edition included several photographs from John Boeman’s personal collection, some of which are shown below:

Lieutenant John Sigler Boeman

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Lieutenant Boeman’s crew, posed on the wing of B-24J 44-40946, an aircraft of the 372nd Bomb Squadron.

The men are…

Standing (back row), left to right

1 Lt. John S. Boeman, Il. – Pilot
2 Lt. Joseph C. Miller, N.J. – Co-Pilot
F/O Alton Charles Dressler, Hershey, Pa. – Navigator, T-132887 (Killed in crash)
WW II Honoree Page by Mrs. Jean Dressler Heatwole (sister)
F/O Joseph Pasternak, St. Louis, Mo. – Bombardier

Seated (front row), left to right

S/Sgt. Arnold Jerome Shore, Philadelphia, Pa. – Waist Gunner, 33777766 (Killed in crash)
S/Sgt. William J. Harrington, Minneapolis, Mn. – Radio Operator
S/Sgt. William P. Brown, Poulsbo, Wa. – Ball Turret Gunner
S/Sgt. Leonard I. Sikorski, Milwaukee, Wi. – Flight Engineer
S/Sgt. David G. Swecker, Clarksburg, W.V. – Tail Gunner
S/Sgt. Ernest James Smieja, Minneapolis, Mn. – Nose Gunner, 37569058 (Killed in crash)

Not in photo

S/Sgt. Eppa Hunton Johnson, Alexandria, Va. – Photographer, 33540167 (Died of injuries June 1, 1945)

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This is F/O Alton Dressler’s tombstone, via FindAGrave contributor Glen Koons

And, the tombstone of S/Sgt. Arnold J. Shore.

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Another view of B-24J 44-40946

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John Boeman and his fellow Officers

Left to right
F/O Joseph Pasternak (Bombardier)
2 Lt. Joseph C. Miller (Co-Pilot)
1 Lt. John S. Boeman
F/O Alton C.
Dressler (Navigator)

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Some years ago, I contacted the Air Force Historical Records Center at Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama, to learn more about the tragic accident that figures so prominently in John Boeman’s book.  It turns out that no Accident Report exists for this incident, that document having been lost since the Second World War, or (more likely!) never having been filed in the first place.  However, the events of May 29, 1945, are well covered in the Squadron History for that month, the pages of which are shown below.

On May 29th, tragedy struck at the 371st when six planes were lined up for an early dawn take-off.  Three planes were already airborne when Lt. Boeman in A/C #548 crashed at the end of the runway.  Within a matter of minutes, his plane burned and two of the 6 1000# GP bombs exploded and four were blown clear and did not explode.  By some unexplainable miracle of fate eight crew members out of eleven escaped this raging inferno with their lives.  Three died in the accident and were burned beyond recognition.  The following men were killed: F/O Dressler, S/Sgt. Shore and S/Sgt. Smeija.  The funeral was held for these men on the afternoon of the same day at a Cemetery on Morotai Island.  Other members of the crew are recovering from serious burns, broken limbs and severe shock.

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B-24L Liberator 44-41548, “Polly”, which would eventually be so central to John Boeman’s journeys, both life and literary.   (Images from B-24 Best Web)

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At Morotai, the funeral of Flight Officer Alton C. Dressler, from 307th Bomb Group, at Fold3.com

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Some passages from Morotai

After dinner, Dad drove, with Mom in the seat beside him as always. 
I sat in the back seat and watched city lights fade away to country darkness. 
Near midnight, turning into our farm lane,
the car’s headlights flashed across the big white house where I was brought into the world. 
Dad stopped under the big maple tree near the front porch. 
I got out into the still, dark, warm night air among the summer cornfields. 
The urge was strong to block the past three years from my mind,
to forget it all,
as I went into the house with my parents.

“I gave Lowell your bedroom when he came to stay with us,” my mother said.
“You can sleep in the big bedroom, where your brother used to sleep.
Is that all right?”

“Oh.  Okay, sure, that’s fine,” I said, and carried my B-4 bag up the stairs.

Bogey had missed by one day.
On my first full day at home,
President Truman announced Japanese acceptance of the Potsdam surrender terms.
My mother asked me to attend special prayers with them at church.
I agreed.

I remembered that big white church on the north side of town. 
Long ago, the lady who taught Sunday school,
when she was not pumping and playing the organ,
had told me how God knew everything. 
“He knows all about each of us,”
she had said as we little boys and girls listened from straight-backed chairs. 
“He knows how many hairs we have on our head. 
He knows every time we are good and every time we are bad. 
He takes care of good little boys and girls …”
Now I listened to the pastor in that same church. 
His words, it seemed to me,
thanked God for taking care of those who were good –
by ending the war. 
I sensed, perhaps unfairly, smug satisfaction that victory had confirmed goodness. 
The pastors’ pious recitation of God’s hand,
in vindication, seemed to ignore those who, I knew,
deserved more than I to be home with loved ones.

Did God end the war? I asked myself.
If He did, did He start it?
Can we blame our enemies for the beginning and thank God for the ending?
No.
War, from the beginning to the end,
must be an affair of men,
in which God plays no favorites.
How dare we be so arrogant as to believe that God would help us,
just because we prayed for it,
to kill and defeat those whom we select as enemies?
Had there not been those among our enemies who asked God’s help, too, in their way?
Would an omnipotent God sell his favors for a few prayers?
Were my crewmates, who fell victim to my shortcomings,
less deserving of God’s help than I?

As we left the church, I had not the words to describe my feelings,
to articulate my thoughts. 
To avoid burdening my parents with my reaction to the service, I said nothing. 
On our way home, passing the village main street, I saw people gathered. 
Home, I borrowed the car and returned to town.

On the one-block main street of the village I had known as my hometown all my life,
they had built a bonfire.
While some in our town thanked God for ending the war,
others chose to vent emotions in a ritual that closing the village taverns could not inhibit.
Parked around the corner,
I got out and approached a scene that struck me as one from an old movie,
in which barbaric tribesmen were whipping themselves to frenzy.
They had sacrificed their young men to appease the demon and ward off dark evils.
Now, celebrating their success, they were giving their thanks to the Great God War for sparing them.
Flames shot up from the fire.
Amid shouts and yells, a pair of teenaged boys,
obviously drunk,
approached in an automobile.
One waved a whiskey bottle out the window while the other drove through the edge of the fire.
The crowd cheered, what, their bravery?
What are they cheering? I asked myself.
What are they celebrating?
“Hello, Johnny.”  A voice I remembered.
One of the few girls who had called me Johnny, instead of John, in school.
Once I had thought her the most beautiful creature on earth,
but had never told her so.
I had never kissed her, never asked.
There had always been another boy, regarded by our peers as her “steady.”
Conforming to the code of our time and place,
maybe from shyness,
I had tried to keep from exposing my true feelings about her.
“I heard you were coming home,” she said.
“Come on and join the snake dance.”

 

She held out her hand. 
The cool pressure of her fingers in mine excited old emotions. 
We joined the crowd forming in a line, holding hands,
to dance and run through the street and around the fire. 
I knew she had married a “steady” since I left. 
He was overseas. 
Was the invitation a friendly overture for old time’s sake,
or was it the approach of a lonely married woman yielding to temptation in the excitement?  
By the end of the dance, I was afraid to know the answer. 
Whichever, it could lead to complications I did not want to face. 
I disentangled myself and moved to the sidewalk beyond the crowd.

What are they celebrating?
I asked myself the question again.
Among them I recognized some I had known well when the decisive battles were still to be fought.  They had not seen those as their battles.
They had not sworn to obey any orders.
They had taken no oath.
They had pledged not their lives, their fortunes, nor their Sacred Honor.
Yet they accepted the victory as theirs,
as if by Divine Right, attained, by them,
simply by waiting for it.
Now they celebrated peace, their peace.

The street scene filled me with consternation equal to that I had felt in the church. 
I had known these people. 
I could put names to all their faces. 
But now they were strangers to me, living in a world apart from mine. 
I wanted their silly celebrations no more than their pious prayers. 
I wanted to run away.

I wanted to run away, but to where?
Turn my back because they prayed, or celebrated?
Should I condemn them for not seeing a world I saw?
I had been raised among them, with them, as one of them.
By what right could I now say I was not one of them?
If not one of them, who could I be?
My commitment to win the war had been total,
but if not on their behalf, then on whose?
I could not answer.

The war was over – I had survived. 
I was home, safe in the land of my birth. 
Only my innocence had died, and with it my youth. 
Fair or not fair, right or wrong, whether I wanted it or not, whether anyone liked it or not
– I had a life to live. 
I was twenty-one.

I would find new dreams, new commitments.
I locked the consternating questions within myself, without answers,
and stepped off the sidewalk into the crowd.

I joined the survivors.

______________________________

References

Boeman, John S., Morotai – A Memoir of War, Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City, N.Y., 1981 (1st Edition)

Boeman, John S., Morotai – A Memoir of War, Sunflower University Press, Manhattan, Ks., 1989 (2nd Edition; Illustrated)

Fritsche, Carl H. (Book Review), Morotai – A Memoir of War by John Boeman, Aerospace Historian, V 28, N 3, Fall, 1981, p. 212

307th Bomb Group Aircraft Inventory and Air Crew Losses, at 307th BG

B-24J 44-40946 (no nickname), at B-24 Best Web

B-24L 44-41548 (Polly) – 5 images, at B-24 Best Web

Words in Print: Vasily Semyonovich Grossman (Василий Семенович Гроссман) – Book Review of “Life and Fate” (1987 Harper & Row Edition, with cover illustration by Christopher Zacharow), The New York Times, March 9, 1986

Almost a year and a half after the Collins Harvill publication of Life and Fate, Harper & Row released a paperback version of the novel with a striking cover illustration by Christopher Zacharow.  The image depicts German and Soviet military helmets conjoined at their bases to form a symbolic guard tower – with the diminutive silhouette of a guard within – overlooking the electric fence of a concentration camp or anonymous camp in the gulag.

Zacharow’s composition is a simple and bold representation of the ideological parallels shared by totalitarian political and social systems, even as those systems are at war with one another.

But even with that, a nearly-glowing patch of light – in an otherwise darkened bluish-grayish-greenish sky – appears above the distant horizon of Zacharow’s painting. 

Sunset or sunrise? 

I would like to think the latter.

(Especially in this summer of the year 2020.)

Ronald Hingley’s extensive New York Times review of Life and Fate covers the novel and its author in terms of history, biography (Grossman’s biography, that is), the book’s social and cultural genesis as a work of literature – in both the Soviet Union and the “West” – in terms of its quality as literature, and (as noted by H.T. Willetts in his 1985 review).  Hingley also notes the centrality of the Jewish identity of some of the protagonists, particularly that of Viktor Shturm, in terms of the book’s plot and message.  (Or, messages, for they are several: overlapping, complementing, and reinforcing one another.)  His review concludes with a brief excerpt from the book; I’ve included extracts of two other passages to enhance this post.

Given the novel’s significance and fame, I’d long wondered if it was ever serialized as a radio program or television mini-series.  The answer – which I discovered upon creating this post – is emphatically “yes” (yes!) on both counts.

In 1981, BBC Radio 4 serialized Life and Fate as a 13-part series, produced and directed by Alison Hindell.  Apparently still available at the BBC and last broadcast in September of 2011, the episodes are entitled:

Abarchuk
Journey
Novikov’s Story
Anna’s Letter
Fortress Stalingrad
Lieutenant Peter Bach
Krymov in Moscow
Viktor and Lyuda
Vera and Her Pilot
Viktor and the Academy
Krymov and Zhena – Lovers Once
A Hero of the Soviet Union
Building 6/1 – Those Who Were Still Alive

The cast – based on episode titles – included Sara Kestelman, Janet Suzman, Kenneth Branagh, and David Tennant.

In October of 2012, a 12-episode television mini-series of Life and Fate was produced in the Russian Federation, by Sergey Ursulyak.  Available through Amazon Prime Video (19 5-star reviews), the episodes, ranging in length between 36 and 49 minutes and available with English-language subtitles, comprise:

On the Front
A Sea of Red Tape
Time for Love
Breakthrough Looms
Inside House Number 6
Fading Hopes
All Seems Lost
Fallout
In Moscow
Persecution
Suspicion and Influence
Requiem for Stalingrad

You can view and read a review of the series at the YouTube Stalingrad Battle Data channel, which includes this notable comment:

“The film raises fundamental questions behind each individual story, but almost always it comes down to this one: how to remain humane in inhumane conditions, oppressed from all sides, with enemies in front as well as behind you.

This is simply one of the very best cast, acted and directed series on WWII and the Soviet era in general.  Excellently played and directed, it’s not only a very good war film, it’s a very good film in absolute.  It’s also an exploration of human nature, most characters having a deep personality and expressing it just fine.”

(Well, now that I’ve finished the latest season of The Expanse, I have something new to look forward to…)

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Stalingrad and Stalin’s Terror

LIFE AND FATE
By Vasily Grossman
Translated by Robert Chandler
880 pp  New York  Harper & Row $22.50

By Ronald Hingley

The New York Times Book Review
March 9, 1986

life-and-fate-vasily-grossman-1985-1987-christopher-zacharow-newCover illustration of Harper & Row edition by Christopher Zacharow (Marian C. Zacharow).  You can view a full view of the painting – it’s quite striking – at Fine Art America, the version above having been cropped to conform to the proportions of the book’s cover.

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(Vasiliy Grossman, in a wartime portrait on the book jacket of The Years of War.)

________________________________________

AN important novel written in the Soviet Union will almost certainly prove unpublishable there, but it will usually find its way to the West sooner or later.  In the case of Vasily Grossman’s “Life and Fate” this has happened much later rather than sooner.  Grossman’s novel was completed in I960.  In other words it was written at about the same time as Boris Pasternak’s “Doctor Zhivago,” the work with which the practice of smuggling out illicit writings began 30 years ago.

“Life and Fate” hinges on the closing phase of the Battle of Stalingrad in the bleak winter of 1942-43, when the Soviet Army held and then routed the German invader on the Volga.  But the action is by no means confined to that river.  It also ranges through Soviet and German-occupied Eastern Europe, giving detailed vistas of front and rear, depicting mass atrocities and penal procedures on both sides.  The text is nearly 900 pages and the named characters are legion. 

Grossman’s faults are the usual faults Socialist Realists as exemplified in hundreds of run-of-the-mill Soviet works of fiction published over the last half century.  The extraordinary thing is to find this puddingy and conformist technique employed by an author who has so triumphantly rejected the political conformism that is supposed to go with the technique.  And the novel indeed does triumph in the end, defects and all, stodge or no stodge.  It triumphs through the high seriousness of Grossman’s grand theme and through his compelling historical, moral and political preoccupations. 

Notable among these is his faith in erratic, spontaneous, unscripted human kindness, as preached from inside a German death camp by a certain Ikonnikov, one of those saintly, philosophizing half-wits so beloved of Russian fiction writers.  Such (as it were) extracurricular kindness is seen as an ineradicable human characteristic.  It is presented as the sole guarantee that victory need not go in the end to the world’s great cruel ideologies, among which Ikonnikov does not hesitate to include Christianity alongside Marxism and Nazism.  The thesis may sound trite, but Grossman illustrates it poignantly. 

The prehistory of the book goes back to 1943, when Grossman began work on an earlier, widely forgotten novel entitled “For a Just Cause.”  That book hinges on the opening phase of the Battle of Stalingrad, it was published in Moscow in 1952, and Grossman conceived it as the first part of a double-decker work of which “Life and Fate” was to form the second.  As things worked out, it was not until 1980 that “Life and Fate” first achieved full publication in Russian, in Lausanne, Switzerland.  And only now do we at last haw it in English translation. 

What of the relations between these two linked novels?  Subplots and major characters straddle them, though not to the extent of making the sequel impenetrably obscure to those ignorant of the predecessor.  Closely linked-in this way, the two works yet offer a sharp contrast in political attitude.  It is a contrast between the conformism of the earlier volume and the militant nonconformism of the later.

“For a Just Cause” was only another sample of Socialist Realist (that is, caponized) fiction, and it was even described as a potential Stalin Prize winner.  True, the first published version came under attack and had to be rewritten.  But that happened even to the most orthodox of Stalinist authors.  And Grossman’s revised text was soon appearing in the Soviet Union.  Its author never became what is now known as a dissident.  Nor did he ever stray far from favor with authority.  He served on the presidium of the Soviet Writers’ Union for 10 years until his death in 1964.  He also won an official decoration, the Banner of Labor, for his writings.

THUS, the news that he was working on a sequel to “For a Just Cause” in the late 1950s would have been unlikely to create a stir in the Soviet Union or anywhere else.  All that could be expected was another gelded fictional brontosaurus like its predecessor, the umpteenth such carcass to litter the landscape of officially approved Soviet literature.  Who was to suspect that there was another, a secret, Grossman, a Grossman painfully aware that his own Government was responsible for a large share of the appalling sufferings that assailed Europe during his middle life?  Here, it turns out, was a loather of totalitarianism in both its guises, the Stalinist no less than the Hitlerite.  “Life and Fate” is a passionate onslaught against state-sponsored political terror.

Having finished the novel, Grossman even dared to offer it for Soviet publication, only to have it piously rejected as anti-Soviet by the journal to which it had been submitted.  Then two K.G.B. officers burst into the author’s home and removed every shred of paper and other material – including used typewriter ribbons – with any conceivable bearing on “Life and Fate.”  Brooding on his loss and disinclined to re-create half a million words from memory, the author implored the party leadership to order the return of his typescript.  His answer came from the ideological satrap Mikhail Suslov: there could be no question of publishing the novel for another 200 years.  That is a telling tribute to its credentials, both as a work of art and as a politically heretical text. 

When Grossman died a year or two later, he could have no reason to suppose that his most inflammatory product would ever see the light of day.  Yet a microfilm of his text somehow survived – these things do happen in Russia – and was eventually spirited abroad.

In portraying Hitlerite and Stalinist totalitarianism as closely resembling each other, the novel is not unique among Soviet-banned works.  Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn has made a similar point, just as he has also tended to agree with Grossman in suggesting that Lenin rather than Stalin was the true founder of Soviet-style totalitarianism.  But Grossman deploys these important arguments with a force and slant all his own.

His book is also remarkable for the attention given, by an author himself Jewish, to the Jewish situation.  The hero is a Soviet Jewish nuclear physicist. Soviet persecution of Jews is a major theme – a shade anachronistical, for attitudes more characteristic of the Soviet Union in the late 40s are here attributed to the war period.  But all that is nothing, of course, compared with the pages on the sufferings of Jews caught up in Hitler’s “final solution.”  For example, the reader of “Life and Fate” enters a gas chamber and breathes in an asphyxiant, the notorious gas Zyklon B.  You need a steady nerve to read parts of this novel. 

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The fate of many of them seemed so poignantly sad
that to speak of them in even the most tender, quiet, kind words
would have been like touching a heart torn open
with a rough and insensitive hand. 

It was really quite impossible to speak of them at all..

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Grossman also pictures the horrors of the Soviet death camps and takes the reader inside the unspeakable Lubyanka Pitson in Moscow.  His account of Soviet life – penal, military and civilian – is encyclopedic and unblinkered.  On the military side it embraces adventures in an encircled strongpoint in Stalingrad – artillery bombardments, air raids, hand-to-hand fighting, the relations between commanders and military commissars and life in the army on the move and in the rear areas.  Then there are the experiences of civilians – in the provinces, in evacuation to the temporary wartime capital, Kuibyshev, and in Moscow itself.  Love affairs, divorces, the problems of acquiring a ration card or a residence permit – they are all here, the tragic and the trivial side by side.

In is all enormously impressive too, but the level is decidedly uneven.  And there is so very, very much of everything.  One wonders, not for the first time, why Russian authors are so relentlessly committed to fictional gigantism.  One cynical explanation is that they are perverted for life because they are paid by the page and not on the basis of sales.  A less cynical explanation puts it all down to their wish to emulate Tolstoy’s “War and Peace.”  But when Robert Chandler, the workmanlike translator of “Life and Fate,” calls it, in his preface, “the true ‘War and Peace’ of this century,” I incline to cavil, though I can see why he thinks so.  For example, Grossman does vie with Tolstoy in embracing so many events and personages of historical importance: Stalin, Hitler, Eichmann and not a few real-life Soviet generals are among his minor characters.  But his chronological range is far more restricted than Tolstoy’s.  Then again, Tolstoy’s great novel has itself been criticized as loosely shaped.  But it does at least have a shape of sorts – more so, anyway, than Grossman’s sprawling work.  This book has little in the way of compelling plot line, while samples of narrative skill are all too sparse.  A little suspense here, the occasional surprise there, the odd humorous or sarcastic touch: it doesn’t add up to much in the way of vibrancy.

Above all Grossman lacks Tolstoy’s flair for characterization, as do so many other modern Russian fiction writers.  Whether we think of the endless minor figures in the novel, introduced so lavishly as to put even “War and Peace” in the shade, or of the handful of major male heroes, or of the comparably featureless Lyudmilas, Yevgenias and Alexandra Vladimirovnas – everywhere we find the inability to breathe full conviction into the printed word.  The man can make residence permits, army rations, booze-ups in dugouts, gas chambers and mass graves credible.  What a pity, then, that he can’t do the same for human beings.  Yes, yes, he does hand out various physical characteristics, a ginger-colored mustache here, a twitching right eye there.  But his brain children largely tend to be stillborn. 

________________________________________

grossman109_edited-2Disposition of Soviet and German forces during Battle of Stalingrad, as an explanatory map in Harper & Row 1987 paperback edition of Life and Fate.

________________________________________

This is true even of the novel’s main character, the nuclear physicist Viktor Shtrum.  Here is a politically ambivalent figure given to dropping indiscreet remarks.  His star seems ascendant when he makes a crucial discovery in theoretical physics, but he soon becomes the target for an anti-Semitic witch hunt at his institute.  Only at the last moment, when he seems firmly marked as concentration camp fodder, is he unexpectedly rescued by one of Stalin’s famous deus ex machina telephone calls.  This redeems Shtrum’s position. But it also – more significantly – effects his ideological seduction from the status of political waverer to that of enthusiastic pillar of the scientific establishment.  Perhaps Grossman is here apologizing, through his hero, for his own many accommodations with the literary establishment, which so richly rewarded him.  In the light of such speculations Shtrum’s dilemmas become considerably more fascinating than Shtrum himself.

________________________________________

But an invisible force was crushing him.
He could feel its weight, its hypnotic power;
it was forcing him to think as it wanted, to write as it dictated.
This force was inside him;
it could dissolve his will and cause his heart to stop beating;
it came between him and his family;
it insinuated itself into his past, into his childhood memories.
He began to feel that he really was untalented and boring,
someone who wore out the people around him with dull chatter.
Even his work seemed to have grown dull,
to be covered with a layer of dust;
the thought of it no longer filled him with light and joy.
Only people who have never felt such a force themselves
can be surprised that others submit to it.
Those who have felt it, on the other hand,
feel astonished that a man can rebel against it even for a moment
– with one sudden word of anger,
one timid gesture of protest.

________________________________________

THANKS are due to Robert Chandler for providing a clear account of the novel’s history.  Too often illicit Soviet writings are dumped in front of the Western reader with the bare title, author’s name and translator’s name, and the customary blurb comparing the contents to Tolstoy, Chekhov, Shakespeare or whomever – that is all.  But about material emanating from such a fuzzy context we badly need hard information, and we get that kind of information here.

Mr. Chandler’s long labors have made available a work that substantially justifies his own description of it as “the most complete portrait of Stalinist Russia we have or are ever likely to have.” It is, at very least, a significant addition to the great library of smuggled Russian works by Pasternak and his many successors, works written in the Soviet Union but destined almost exclusively for the un-Kremlinized reader.

Everyone Remembered 1937

Scientific research in the country had been discussed by the Central Committee.  When Shcherbakov had proposed a reduction in the Academy’s budget, Stalin had shaken his head and said: “No, we’re not talking about making soap.  We are not going to economize on the Academy.”  Everyone expected a considerable improvement in the position of scientists…  A few days later an important botanist was arrested, Chetyerikov the geneticist.  There were various rumours about the reason for his arrest…  Since the beginning of the war there had been relatively little talk of political arrests.  Many people, Viktor among them, thought that they were a thing of the past.  Now everyone remembered 1937: the daily roll-call of people arrested during the night, people phoning each other up with the news….

Viktor remembered the names of dozens of people who had left and never returned: Academician Vavilov, Vize, Osip Mandelstam, Babel, Boris Pilnyak, Meyerhold, the bacteriologists Korshunov and Zlatogorov, Professor Pletnyov, Doctor Levin.

Was all this going to begin again?  Would one’s heart sink, even after the war, when one heard footsteps or a car horn during the night?

How difficult it was to reconcile such things with the war for freedom!

From “Life and Fate”

Ronald Hingley’s most recent books are “Pasternak,” a biography, and “Nightingale Fever,” a study of four 20th-century Russian poets.

Suggested Readings

Aciman, Alexander, Book Review: Vasily Grossman, the Great Forgotten Soviet Jewish Literary Genius of Exile and Betrayal, Lives Inside Us All, Tablet, October 23, 2017

Capshaw, Ron, The Scroll: The Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee Was Created to Document the Crimes of Nazism Before They Were Murdered by Communists – For the crime of acknowledging Jewish identity, the committee’s members were killed in a Stalinist pogrom, Tablet, November 29, 2018

Epstein, Joseph, The Achievement of Vasily Grossman – Was he the greatest writer of the past century?, Commentary, May, 2019

Eskin, Blake, Book Review: Eyewitness – A collection of Vasily Grossman’s shorter work offers a chance to reassess the Soviet master’s life and legacy. A conversation with Grossman translator Robert Chandler, Tablet, December 8, 2010

Kirsch, Adam, Book Review: No Exit: Life and Fate, Vasily Grossman’s indispensable account of the horrors of Stalinism and the Holocaust, puts Jewishness at the heart of the 20th century, Tablet, November 30, 2011

Taubman, William, Book Review: Life and Fate: A biography of Vasiliy Grossman, the Soviet writer whose masterpiece compared Stalin’s regime to Hitler’s, The New York Times Book Review, p. 16, July 14, 2019

Vapnyar, Lara, Book Review: Dispatches – How World War II turned a Soviet loyalist into a dissident novelist.  Plus: An audio interview with the editor of A Writer at War, Tablet, January 30, 2006

Grossman’s Life and Fate to be Serialised by the BBC, at Russian Books

Grossman’s War: Life and Fate, at BBC

Life and Fate: vivid, heartbreaking, illuminating and utterly brilliant, at The Guardian

Life And Fate: probably the best Stalingrad movie so far, at Stalingrad Battle Date

Life and Fate, at Internet Movie Database

Words in Print: Vasily Semyonovich Grossman (Василий Семенович Гроссман) – Book Review of “Life and Fate”, December 19, 1985

Not long after the appearance of Elaine Feinstein’s review of Life and Fate, the novel was reviewed by H.T. Willetts – albeit, I don’t know the name of the publication in which this review actually appeared.  (Veritably: Oops!)  Mr. Willetts’ review also pertained to the Collins Harvill’ edition of the book.

Like Elaine Feinstein, Mr. Willetts’ focuses on the historical, social, and political context of the work’s creation and eventual publication, while taking special note of the personal and moral quandaries faced by the novel’s central characters, particularly the physicist Viktor Shtrum.  He also notes how Grossman combines individuation of his protagonists with a multi-faceted depiction of (for instance) the battle for Stalingrad. 

The photograph which appears in this post – not from Willett’s original review! – provides a good view of Grossman while serving as a correspondent in the Soviet Army.  Though I have no information about the date and location of the image, the demolished buildings behind in the background- one of which carries a sign ending in the letters “…rie, 10” suggest that the photo was taken within Germany in 1945.  The image is evidently one of a set of two (or more?) such photos taken at the same moment; you can view its counterpart at my blog post for Elaine Feinstein’s 1985 review of Life and Fate.

You may find interest in Grossman’s military award citation for The Order of the Red Star (Ordenu Krasnaya Zvezda – Ордену Красная Звезда), dated 9 December 1942, which is available at Heroic Feats of the People (Podvig Naroda- Подвиг Народа).  This citation specifically mentions Grossman’s works “The People are Immortal,” “The Battle of Stalingrad”, “Stalingrad Crossing”, and “Stalingrad Story”. 

Here’s the citation:

You can read an English-language translation of the award citation here.

  ________________________________________

Overwhelming images of war

FICTION
H.T. Willetts
LIFE AND FATE By Vasily Grossman
Translated by Robert Chandler
Collins Harvill.  £15

December 19, 1985

(Photograph accompanying Zelda Gamson’s essay of May 23, 2015 “The Life and Fate of Vasily Grossman“, at Jewish Currents.)

Life and Fate is the richest and most vivid account to be found of what the Second World War meant to the Soviet Union.  Like all Soviet “epics”, ‘it is a mosaic – but not a bitter one.  Grossman does not, as Ehrenburg did in the thirties, drag in new characters and invent gratuitous episodes because he cannot keep the story going.  His characters are all connected, closely or by a long and intricate chain of circumstances, with the central figures, the Shaposhnikov sisters: we meet husbands, ex-husbands, children, ex-lovers … but also the politicos and commanders on whom the fate of their kin and friends depends … and the German officers and epauletted torturers who have many of their kin and friends under their paws.  The scene shifts, back and forth, rapidly, but never confusingly, from the Stalingrad front to the reserve armies in the rear, to the evacuees in Kuibyshev, to those privileged to return from Kuibyshev to Moscow, to a German POW camp, to a Jewish ghetto, a Jewish column en route from the death camps, to Auschwitz, even, for a brief glimpse, to a frightened Hitler at his field HQ after the Stalingrad reversal.

Places are as solidly realized as people – above all war-shattered Stalingrad (Grossman was there throughout as a war correspondent).  I shall never forget this utterly convincing and startlingly vivid picture of the (semi-barbaric) life of soldiers and workers among the rubble and the wrecked machines.  We attend conferences at HQs (even Army HQs, with unloving portrayals of famous generals like Chuikov and Eremenko), but military operations are seen mostly at micro-level: from the snipers’ outposts, or the forward tanks in the great counterattack – the only vantage points from which the realities of war can be felt.  In another extraordinary feat of descriptive writing the construction and equipment of Auschwitz are described in careful, dispassionate detail, as though what was before us was the building of a canning plant in a very superior Soviet “production novel” of the thirties.  The effect is flesh-creeping – and the climax, with the plant in use, and its operatives individualized, is overwhelmingly macabre.

The novel owes much of its tragic power to Grossman’s understanding of the ambivalence of patriotism.  He sees many resemblances between Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany – and the most fateful was the capture and perversion of patriotic feeling by unscrupulous politicians.  This theme is fascinatingly developed in his account of relations between the real soldiers and the political officers at the front.  Here is the supreme irony: the Soviet regime survived because it let patriotism, simple Russian patriotism, have its head – then took control of it, and perverted it to other purposes.  No book except Gulag has so enlarged my understanding of the way in which the regime distorts ordinary human relations – and the extent to which the regime was produced and is sustained by banal and venal human selfishness and callousness.

A by-product of Stalinist nationalism was the anti-semitism which received tacit, then more explicit official encouragement as the war drew to its end.  It is in this context that we see Grossman’s greatest triumph over the temptations of his material.  The atomic physicist, Shtrum is almost destroyed by a tidal wave of official anti-semitism, but plucked to safety by Stalin in person, who knows that atomic physics and anti-semitism both have their (limited) uses.  Grossman handles Shtrum’s story with irony and compassion.  Nobly, even self-destructively (to his family’s exasperation), defiant while he is persecuted, Shtrum, once “vindicated”, tries to shut his mind to doubt and enjoy his success.

No more powerful war novel has come from any country for many years past.

Suggested Readings

Aciman, Alexander, Book Review: Vasily Grossman, the Great Forgotten Soviet Jewish Literary Genius of Exile and Betrayal, Lives Inside Us All, Tablet, October 23, 2017

Capshaw, Ron, The Scroll: The Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee Was Created to Document the Crimes of Nazism Before They Were Murdered by Communists – For the crime of acknowledging Jewish identity, the committee’s members were killed in a Stalinist pogrom, Tablet, November 29, 2018

Epstein, Joseph, The Achievement of Vasily Grossman – Was he the greatest writer of the past century?, Commentary, May, 2019

Eskin, Blake, Book Review: Eyewitness – A collection of Vasily Grossman’s shorter work offers a chance to reassess the Soviet master’s life and legacy. A conversation with Grossman translator Robert Chandler, Tablet, December 8, 2010

Kirsch, Adam, Book Review: No Exit: Life and Fate, Vasily Grossman’s indispensable account of the horrors of Stalinism and the Holocaust, puts Jewishness at the heart of the 20th century, Tablet, November 30, 2011

Taubman, William, Book Review: Life and Fate: A biography of Vasiliy Grossman, the Soviet writer whose masterpiece compared Stalin’s regime to Hitler’s, The New York Times Book Review, p. 16, July 14, 2019

Vapnyar, Lara, Book Review: Dispatches – How World War II turned a Soviet loyalist into a dissident novelist.  Plus: An audio interview with the editor of A Writer at War, Tablet, January 30, 2006

 

Words in Print: Vasily Semyonovich Grossman (Василий Семенович Гроссман) – Book Review of “Life and Fate”, The New York Times, November 22, 1985

Here’s Elaine Feinstein’s New York Times’ review of Vasily Grossman’s magnum opus Life and Fate, as published by Collins Harvill in 1985.  I believe that the Collins’ edition of the book was the work’s first English-language publication.

Notice that Feinstein doesn’t address aspects of the work as literature (all books, regardless of the author, have their merits, idosyncracies, and foibles), instead focusing on the novel more in terms of its historical context – “history” history, and, literary history – and the characters who appear in its many pages.

The photograph which appears in this post – certainly not in the original book review! – provides an emblematic view of Grossman during his service as a correspondent in the Soviet Army.  Though I possess no information about the picture’s date and location, the demolished buildings in the background – on one of which appears a sign ending with the letters “…rie, 10” suggest that the photo was taken in Germany.  The image is evidently one of a set of two (or more?) such photos taken at the same moment; you can view its counterpart at my blog post for H.T. Willett’s 1985 review of Life and Fate.

In terms of Grossman’s military service, you may find interest in his military award citation for The Order of the Red Star (Ordenu Krasnaya Zvezda – Ордену Красная Звезда), dated 9 December 1942, which is available at Heroic Feats of the People (Podvig Naroda- Подвиг Народа).  This document specifically mentions Grossman’s works “The People are Immortal,” “The Battle of Stalingrad”, “Stalingrad Crossing”, and “Stalingrad Story”. 

The citation also appears below: 

The English-language translation of the award citation can be found here.

  ________________________________________

From Workplace and Battlefield

Elaine Feinstein
VASILY GROSSMAN
Life and Fate
Translated by Robert Chandler

880pp.  Collins.  £15.
0002614545

November 22, 1985

(Photograph accompanying Alexander Anichkin’s blog post of January 31, 2011 “Grossman’s Life and Fate to be Serialised by the BBC“, at Tetradki – A Russian Review of Books.)

Through the narrative of Evgenia Ginzburg, the camp stories of Shalamov, and the memoirs of Nadezhda Mandelstam, we have learnt a good deal of what it meant to live in Stalin’s Russia during the years, of the Terror; but the Great Patriotic War, in which Hitler was turned back at Stalingrad, has largely remained sacred in our imagination.  The books in which .Solzhenitsyn attempts most stridently to persuade us that the fight against Communism was, even at that point, more vital to our civilization than the struggle against Nazism, have never seemed to be his best.  This extraordinary novel by Vasily Grossman is set precisely at the historical moment when the, outcome of the house-to-house fighting, at the height of the struggle, is still in doubt.  And as the book fans out to follow the fortunes of an extended family network, it poses a terrible question.  Could any military victory mean much, given what we now know men and women are capable of doing to one another?  It is important to understand that this question is asked by a man altogether inside the Soviet world; a writer discovered by Gorky, working alongside Ehrenburg; a man who understands contemporary science well enough to set a figure recalling Lev Davidovich Landau, a genius of theoretical physics, at the heart of his book; a man who came to think of himself as a Jew only with the death of his mother at German hands.

As it stands, the book is a sprawling giant, which might well have been re-worked by the author if his manuscripts had not been confiscated when he submitted the novel for publication.  (He died in 1964.)  It remains as remarkable a document of the conflicts of daily working lives under political and moral stress as we are likely to be given.  Grossman is a writer untouched by Modernism.  Essentially (since Socialist Realism always took the nineteenth-century novel as its pattern) he invites comparison with Tolstoy throughout his book.  Unlike most writers who Warrant that comparison through the sheer scope of their material, Grossman occasionally shows a delicacy of local observation and a quality of insight which genuinely recall War and Peace.  There is a particular freshness in the letter from Anna Semyovna, dismissed with other Jews from her hospital post and herded into a ghetto, hurt most by the thought of ending her life far away from her son.  Not every character that enters the battlefield has the same vitality.  The strength of Grossman’s work, however (and this is an overwhelmingly powerful novel), lies in his understanding both the multiplicity of human bitterness and the occasional miracles of kindness.

At the centre of the book, the mathematician Viktor Shtrum (to whom Grossman has given much of his own experience) lives with his wife Lyudmila.  He cannot help reproaching her for her coldness towards his Jewish mother, just as she cannot help resenting his indifference towards her son from an earlier marriage.  Lyudmila’s bitterness is fixed forever when her son dies at the front on a surgeon’s table.  When she meets the surgeon, she recognizes his need for the comfort of her forgiveness.  The sensitivity of such understanding is never extended to her husband.

For all his brilliance, Shtrum is at risk inside the laboratory; his wife refuses to share either his triumphs or his humiliations.  When he is emboldened by nomination for a Stalin Prize to telephone a superior who usually ignores him, only to find he has been excluded from an evening entertainment, she taunts him with having got off on the wrong foot.  And when he is explicitly accused of “dragging Science into a swamp of Talmudic abstractions”, the only person he can turn to is his colleague Chepyzhin, a character clearly based on the Cambridge-trained physicist, Kapitza, who refused to take part in any research relating to nuclear fission.

Chepyzhin’s grounds for such a refusal, in Grossman’s interpretation, go to the heart of human weakness.  Viktor’s colleagues are not wicked or stupid, but they cannot be trusted.  As Chepyzhin puts it: “You said yourself that man is not yet kind enough or wise enough to lead a rational life.”  Of the many memorable episodes, few are more moving than the sudden intimacy of conversation between Shtrum and Chepyzhin, two men who take the risk of trusting one another and thereafter talk as greedily as “an invalid who can think of nothing but his illness”.

Not everyone is so fortunate.  Betrayal is commonplace and there is always guilt.  Mostovskoy, an Old Communist in a German POW camp, recognizes his own features in the face of his weary interrogator; and another Old Comrade discovers, in the Lubyanka, that innocence is no defence against torture.  Grossman puts his deepest hopes into the mouth of an unhinged holy fool, Ikonnikov, who is executed because he refuses to take part in building an extermination camp.  Grossman’s triumph is to make it seem irrelevant which monstrous State demanded that he should do so.”

Suggested Readings

Aciman, Alexander, Book Review: Vasily Grossman, the Great Forgotten Soviet Jewish Literary Genius of Exile and Betrayal, Lives Inside Us All, Tablet, October 23, 2017

Capshaw, Ron, The Scroll: The Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee Was Created to Document the Crimes of Nazism Before They Were Murdered by Communists – For the crime of acknowledging Jewish identity, the committee’s members were killed in a Stalinist pogrom, Tablet, November 29, 2018

Epstein, Joseph, The Achievement of Vasily Grossman – Was he the greatest writer of the past century?, Commentary, May, 2019

Eskin, Blake, Book Review: Eyewitness – A collection of Vasily Grossman’s shorter work offers a chance to reassess the Soviet master’s life and legacy. A conversation with Grossman translator Robert Chandler, Tablet, December 8, 2010

Kirsch, Adam, Book Review: No Exit: Life and Fate, Vasily Grossman’s indispensable account of the horrors of Stalinism and the Holocaust, puts Jewishness at the heart of the 20th century, Tablet, November 30, 2011

Taubman, William, Book Review: Life and Fate: A biography of Vasiliy Grossman, the Soviet writer whose masterpiece compared Stalin’s regime to Hitler’s, The New York Times Book Review, p. 16, July 14, 2019

Vapnyar, Lara, Book Review: Dispatches – How World War II turned a Soviet loyalist into a dissident novelist.  Plus: An audio interview with the editor of A Writer at War, Tablet, January 30, 2006

A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller, Jr. – October, 1959 (February, 1961) [Unknown Artist]

“Maybe you’ve always thought of war as a business for the tough and the unimaginative.
It has been said that the best soldier leaves his emotions at home;
that pre-battle training is a period calculated to harden both mind and body.
But what of the boy who cannot harden?
What of the lad who cannot put his sensitivity in a suitcase and store it for the duration?
Walter Miller tells us.”

– Introduction to “Wolf Pack”, by Walter M. Miller, Jr., Fantastic, September-October, 1953

____________________

If the spirit of an age – its dreams and moods; fancies and wonders; fears and hopes – is reflected in its literature, then a prime example of such remains Walter M. Miller., Jr.’s 1959 novel, A Canticle for Leibowitz.  Based on and derived from three short stories published in the mid-1950s – the first of which shares and perhaps inspired the novel’s title – only a decade after the development of atomic weapons and amidst the (first?) Cold War, Miller’s tale was one of many works of science-fiction that presented a vision of the world, and particularly man’s place within that world, subsequent to a global nuclear war. 

In this context, I strongly recommend the recent (October, 2020) essay about Miller’s Canticle by Pedro Blas González, “A Canticle for Leibowitz and Cyclical History“.  Therein, Dr. Gonzalez discusses Miller’s novel through the lens of Catholicism (to which Miller converted after the war), viewing the novel as an expression of Miller’s interpretation and understanding of the nature of history.  As implied (albeit not specifically mentioned) within Dr. González’s essay, and moreso readily understood through a reading of the Canticle, Miller did not view human history as being “progressive” – and thus not having an “arc” in any direction – but instead, as being cyclical, even if those cycles would occupy great intervals of time.  

Though doubtless inspired by technological developments and geopolitics of the mid-twentieth century, the two animating ideas of Miller’s novel extend well beyond science fiction, for they represent chords of thought embedded deep within the psyche of men, nations, and civilizations.  These are the idea of an apocalypse, and, the gradual and tenuous rebirth of civilization after centuries during which the collective knowledge of the past (perhaps our present?…) has become myth at best, and utterly forgotten at worst.  However, rather than concluding upon a note of redemption, the book’s final chapters leave the reader with a sense of deep ambivalence, for the novel suggests that the currents of history are by nature cyclic.

Despite the novel’s origin during the Cold War, Miller’s inspiration for A Canticle for Leibowitz seems to have arisen from something simpler, immediate, and intensely personal: His military service during the Second World War, during which he served as an aerial gunner and radio operator in the United States Army Air Force.  Specifically, the impetus for his creation of the stories and novel was his participation in a combat mission during which his bomb group participated in the destruction of the hilltop abbey of Monte Cassino.  As discussed in academic and popular literature (see Alexandra H. Olsen’s paper in Extrapolation, William Roberson’s Reference Guide to Miller’s life and fiction, and Denny Bowden’s essay at Volusia History) on a fundamental level Miller world-view was profoundly affected, if not irrevocably altered, by the experience.

Though most sources (at least, web sources) about Miller describe his military service in general terms, Roberson’s Reference Guide specifically identifies Miller’s military unit: The 489th Bombardment Squadron.  The 489th was one of the four squadrons of the 340th Bomb Group (its three brother squadrons having been the 486th, 487th, and 488th), a unit of the Mediterranean-based 12th Air Force which flew B-25 Mitchell twin-engine medium bombers.  During the time that Miller was a member of the 489th (probably late 1943 through mid-1944) the squadron was stationed at the Italian locales of San Pancrazio, Foggia, Pompeii, and the Gaudo Airfield.

The 489th’s evocative unit insignia, which doubtless adorned the leather flight jackets of many of its officers and men, is shown below…

The best resource on the web (certainly better than anything in print!) for information about the 489th and 340th is the website of the 57th Bomb Wing Association.  This resource, covering the 57th’s four bomb groups (the 310th, 319th, 321st, and 340th) gives access to an enormous amount of information, as original Army Air Force Group and Squadron histories and Mission Reports, (many of which are transcribed as PDFs), and, a plethora of photographs.  Typical of Army Air Force WW II military records, there’s a degree of variation in the quantity and depth of this information from group to group, and, squadron to squadron:  Records for some (most?) combat units are complete, though there are inevitable gaps, “here and there”.

In documents pertaining to the 489th, I’ve discovered three references to Miller’s military service.

____________________

First, Timing: A record of combat missions flown by the 489th during the February of 1944.  For the fifteenth of that month, the record – like that for all other missions – is unsurprisingly laconic: “Benedictine Monastery, Italy.  6 planes.”

____________________

Second, Identification: Miller’s name appears within a list of airmen who, already having received the Air Medal (for completing five combat missions), had been awarded two Bronze Oak Leaf Clusters, thus signifying the completion – by the end of February – of up to fifteen combat missions.  His name is listed eleventh from the top in the “upper” list…

____________________

Third, Verification:  This “third” document – also found at 57th Bomb Wing – is what’s known in the parlance of the WW II Army Air Force as a “Loading List”, meaning that it lists the names of crewman assigned to specific planes during a combat mission or sortie, on an aircraft-by-aircraft basis.  This Loading List, covering 489th Bomb Squadron aircraft and crews which participated on the Cassino mission of February 15, 1944, shows that seven of the Squadron’s B-25s took part in the mission. 

Each plane is denoted by a three-digit number, which represents the last three digits of the B-25s Army Air Force serial number.  This is followed by the number “9” and a letter, the “9” representing the 489th Bomb Squadron, and the adjacent letter – a different letter for every plane in the squadron – uniquely identifying each B-25 in the squadron.  Each such number-letter combination was painted on the outer surface of the twin vertical tails of the squadron’s planes, a practice shared by the 340th’s other three squadrons.  This is followed by information about the planes’ bomb loads, which – in all cases but one – were three or four thousand-pound demolition bombs.

Then, we come to the crews themselves, which follow the same general sequence: P (Pilot), CP (Co-Pilot), B (Bombardier), R (Radio Operator), G (Aerial Gunner / Flight Engineer), and TG (Tail Gunner).

Where was Walter M. Miller, Jr.?  He’s there:  He was a radio operator in the aircraft commanded by J.M. Kirtley, B-25 “#141”, or, “9X”. 

As the 57th Bomb Wing includes Loading Lists for other missions flown by the 489th (and the 340th Bomb Group’s three brother squadrons), doubtless Miller’s name appears in these documents, as well.  But, this will suffice for now. 

____________________

The image below may be akin to the view seen by Miller on February 15, 1944:  Captioned,”Formation of North American B-25s of the 340th Bomb Group enroute to their target – Cassino.  March 15, 1944,” the picture is United States Army Air Force photo “68261AC / A22901”, and can be found within the (appropriately) entitled collection “WW II US Air Force Photos“, at Fold3.com.  The planes are aircraft of the 488th Bomb Squadron, the “give-away” being the “8C” (“8”, for 488th) code on the vertical tail of the aircraft in the left center. 

But, Walter Miller did not participate on the day’s mission, for his name is absent from the 489th’s Loading List for March 15….

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The results of war: A view of the remnants of the town of Cassino (foreground), and the hilltop abbey (upper center), in Army Air Force Photograph 62093AC / A25003.  Curiously, the caption on the rear of the photo states, “Bomb damage to Monte di Cassino  Abbey, Cassino, Italy, after bombing attacks by Allied planes.  The centuries-old monastery had been used by the German defenders as a strong point to block the Allied drive on Rome,” but the words “Monte di Cassino Abbey” are crossed out. 

The image is undated, but it was received by the Army Air Force or War Department in November of 1944.

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As mentioned in the Wikipedia entry for the novel, and, discussed by Alexandra H. Olsen, A Canticle for Leibowitz, published in October of 1959, was created by melding and altering elements, characters, concepts, and plot devices from his three previously published post-cataclysmic stories (all having appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction) into a single work, and, adding passages in Latin. 

The three stories which formed the basis of the novel were:

“A Canticle for Leibowitz”, published in April of 1955 (pp. 93-111)
“And the Light Is Risen”, published in August, 1956 (pp. 3-80)
“The Last Canticle”, published in February, 1957 (pp. 3-50)

A final tale in the series, “God Is Thus”, appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction in November of 1997 (pp. 13-51), thirty-eight years after the novel’s publication. 

But… 

…though the motivation for the ultimate creation of Canticle of 1955 was Miller’s participation in the bombardment of Monte Cassino, evidence for the emotional impact of that is clearly evident in an earlier story of a vastly different literary nature:  This was “Wolf Pack”, which appeared in the September-October, 1953, issue of Fantastic.  Among the thirty-eight works of short fiction listed in Miller’s biographical profile at the Internet Speculative Fiction Database, “Wolf Pack” was the 26th, while “Secret of the Death Dome”, published in Amazing Stories in 1951, was the first.  “Wolf Pack” appeared two years before “A Canticle for Leibowitz’s” publication, in the 1955 The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. 

Though I’ve thus far barely (!) skimmed the story, it seems to belong entirely to the realm of fantasy as opposed to science fiction, for it relates a combat flyer’s confrontation with his conscience – himself? – on levels symbolic, psychological, and perhaps supernatural.

Do you want to read the story?  Here’s a PDF version of “Wolf Pack”

As for the artistic aspects of the Fantastic story – visual art, that is! – here’s the two-page opening illustration for the tale…

…and here’s an accompanying illustration, showing representations of a B-25 bomber (viewed from above) and a bombardier peering through a generic “black box” looking bombsight (not quite a Norden bombsight!), both visual elements being surrounded by symbolic vignettes of villages.  Both pieces are by Bernard Krigstein, whose work is much more strongly associated with comic books than pulps. 

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Continuing on a theme of art, here’s the cover of Bantam Books’ 1961 paperback edition of the novel, which shows a monk against a backdrop of a destroyed city’s skyline.  Though the artist’s name isn’t listed, perhaps he was Paul Lehr, given the era of the book’s publication, and, the visual style of the composition.

In terms of Miller’s use of Latin, here’s the prayer uttered by Brother Francis Gerard of The Albertian Order of Saint Leibowitz, which appears very early in the novel’s first part (“Fiat Homo”), during the Brother’s exploration of the remains of a fallout shelter somewhere in the American Southwest.  The allusions to the actuality and legacy of nuclear war are explicit and vivid, and – recited in the format of prayer rather than prose, with each of the three central groups of verses being thematically linked – powerfully expressed and visually evocative. 

A spiritu fornicationis,
Domine, libera nos.
From the lighting and the tempest,

O Lord, deliver us.

From the scourge of the earthquake,
O Lord, deliver us.
From plague, famine, and war,

O Lord, deliver us.

From the place of ground zero,
O Lord, deliver us.
From the ruin of the cobalt,

O Lord, deliver us.
From the rain of the strontium,

O Lord, deliver us.
From the fall of the cesium,

O Lord, deliver us.

From the curse of the Fallout,
O Lord, deliver us.
From the begetting of monsters,

O Lord, deliver us.
From the curse of the Misborn,

O Lord deliver us.
A morte perpetua,

Domine, libera nos.

Peccatores,
te rogamus, audi nos.
That thou wouldst spare us,

we beseech thee, hear us.
That thou wouldst pardon us,

we beseech there, hear us.
That thou wouldst bring us truly to penance,

te rogamus, audi nos.
(pp. 14-15)

(In just a moment, Brother Gerard will discover a relic from the life of Saint Leibowitz…)

________________

________________

Of the larger folded papers, one was tightly rolled as well,
and it began to fall apart when he tried to unroll it;
he could make out the words RACING FORM, but nothing more. 
After returning it to the box for later restorative work,
he turned to the second folded document;
its creases were so brittle that he dared inspect only a little of it,
by parting the folds slightly and peering between them.

A diagram, it seemed, but – a diagram of white lines on dark paper!

Again he felt the thrill of discovery. 
It was clearly a blueprint
– and there was not a single original blueprint left at the abbey,
but only inked facsimiles of several such prints. 
The originals had faded long ago from overexposure to light. 
Never before had Francis seen an original,
although he had seen enough hand-painted reproductions to recognize it as a blueprint,
which, while stained and faded,
remained legible after so many centuries because of the total darkness and low humidity in the abbey.  He turned the document over – and felt brief fury:
What idiot had desecrated the priceless paper? 
Someone had sketched absent-minded geometrical figures and childish cartoon faces all over the back.  What thoughtless vandal-

The anger passed after a moment’s reflection.
At the time of the deed, blueprints had probably been as common as weeds,
and the owner of the box the probably culprit.
He shielded the print from the sun with his own shadow while trying to unfold it further.
It the lower right-hand corner was a printed rectangle containing,
in simple block-letters, various titles, dates, “patent numbers”, reference numbers, and names.
His eye traveled down the list until it encountered:
“CIRCUIT DESIGN BY: Leibowitz, I.E.

He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head until it seemed to rattle. 
Then he looked again. 
There is was, quite plainly:

“CIRCUIT DESIGN BY: Leibowitz, I.E.”

He flipped the paper over again. 
Among the geometric figures and childish sketches,
clearly stamped in purple ink,
was the form:

The name was written in a clear feminine hand,
not in the hasty scrawl of the other notes. 
He looked again at the initialed signature of the note in the lid of the box,
I.E.L. – and again at “CIRCUIT DESIGN BY …” 
And the same initials appeared elsewhere throughout the notes.

(Proof of the Saint’s existence!  Here’s the “Circuit Design Form” bearing his signature, from page 23 of the Bantam paperback.  Absent from “Canticle” in the 1955 edition of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, in book form, it really catches the reader’s attention.) 

There had been argument, all highly conjectural,
about whether the beautiful founder of the Order, if finally canonized,
should be addressed as Saint Isaac or as Saint Edward.
Some even favored Saint Leibowitz as the proper address,
since the Beatus had, until the present, been referred to by his surname.

“Beate Leibowitz, ora pro me!” whispered Brother Francis. 
His hands were trembling so violently that they threatened to ruin the brittle documents.

He had uncovered relics of the Saint.  (pp. 22-24)

________________________________________

Given the novel’s success, it’s unsurprising that it was adapted for radio broadcast.  It’s available via Archive.org, at The Classic Archives Old Time Radio Channel, and Old Time Radio Downloads

Created in 1981, the play is comprised of fifteen segments, each of roughly a half-hour duration.  The informational blurb at Archive.org states, “The radio drama adaptation by John Reed, and produced at WHA by Carl Schmidt and Marv Nunn.  The play was directed by Karl Schmidt, engineered by Marv Nunn with special effects by Vic Marsh.  Narrator – Carol Collins and includes Fred Coffin, Bart Hayman, Herb Hartig and Russel Horton.  Music was by Greg Fish and Bob Budney and the Edgewood College Chant Group.”

________________________________________

________________________________________

These are covers of the three 1950’s issues of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction in which appeared the three stories from which were derived Miller’s novel, and, the cover of Fantasy & Science Fiction in October-November of 1997, which was the venue for the last story in the series.  Ironically, none of the four issues feature cover art actually pertaining to Miller’s stories or novel.  Much the same was so for 1951 issue of Galaxy Magazine in which appeared Ray Bradbury’s “The Fireman”, later published in book form as Farhenheit 451:  That issue featured cover art by Chesley Bonestell.

__________

The cover of the April, 1955 issue features a close-up from Chesley Bonestell’s stunning panorama “Mars Exploration”.  Notice that the painting shows a strip of green – vegetation – at the base of weathered background hills.  Well, this was the mid-1950s, over a decade before Mariner probes revealed the true nature of the Martian surface.  Then again, maybe Mars is “green”, but a deeper, below-the-surface kind of green?

“A Canticle for Leibowitz”
April, 1955

____________________

“Mars Exploration”, by Chesley Bonestell

________________________________________

“And the Light Is Risen”
August, 1956

________________________________________

“The Last Canticle”
February, 1957

________________________________________

“God Is Thus”
October-November, 1997

________________________________________

References, Readings, and What-Not…

57th Bomb Wing, at 57thBombWing.com

340th Bomb Group History, at 57thBombWing.com

489th Bomb Squadron History, at 57thBombWing.com

489th Bomb Squadron History for February, 1944 (PDF Transcript), at 57th BombWing.com

489th Bomb Squadron insignia, at RedBubble.com

Bernard Krigstein, at Wikipedia

Walter M. Miller, Jr., at Wikipedia

Walter M. Miller, Jr., at Internet Speculative Fiction Database

“A Canticle for Leibowitz”, at Wikipedia

“Mars Exploration” (painting), by Chesley Bonestell, at RetroFuturism (subreddit)

The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (covers for April, 1955, August, 1956, and October-November, 1997), at Pulp Magazine Archive (Archive.org)

Bond, Harold L., Return to Cassino, Pocket Books, Inc., New York, N.Y., March, 1965

Bowden, Denny, Secret Life / Death of the Author of the Greatest Science Fiction Novel – Born in New Smyrna, Died in Daytona Beach, at VolusiaHistory.com

Majdalany, Fred, The Battle of Cassino, Ballantine Books, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1957

Olsen, Alexandra H., Re-Vision: A Comparison of Canticle for Leibowitz and the Novellas Originally Published, Extrapolation, Summer, 1997

Piekalkiewicz, Janusz, Cassino – Anatomy of the Battle, Orbis Publishing, London, England, 1980

Roberson, William H., Walter M. Miller, Jr.: A Reference Guide to His Fiction and His Life, McFarland and Company, Inc., Jefferson, N.C., 2011

Webley, Kayla, Top Ten Post-Apocalyptic Books: A Canticle for Leibowitz, Time, June 7, 2010

Battle of Britain: The Hardest Day, by Alfred Price – 1980 (1979) [Phillip Emms]

The cover art of the 1980 edition of Alfred Price’s The Hardest Day – covering the events of the Battle of Britain on August 18, 1940 – depicts an aerial battle from a vantage point highly unusual for aviation art:  Rather than viewing aircraft engaging one another in combat from a far vantage point, Phillip Emms shows an air battle from inside of an aircraft.  In this case, the battle is seen from the viewpoint of the bombardier of a Heinkel III bomber.  He’s firing a nose-mounted 7.9mm machine gun at attacking Hawker Hurricanes of Number 32 Squadron, with the English coastline in the distance. 

To present the reality of the day’s air battles, below, you can read about the experiences (and the unhappy fate, of one) of four RAF pilots mentioned in Price’s book, accompanied by their photographs.  The images of Hugo, Russell, and Wahl are from The Hardest Day, while Solomon’s portrait is from Winston G. Ramsey’s The Battle of Britain: Then and Now.

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Author Alfred Price’s biography, from the book jacket:  “As an air crew officer in the Royal Air Force for fifteen years, Alfred Price logged more than 4,000 flying hours in 40 different aircraft.  He specialized in electronic warfare, aircraft weapons, and air-fighting tactics.  He has written more than 14 books on aviation, including Instruments of Darkness, The Bomber in World War II, and Spitfire: A Documentary History, published by Scribners.”

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F/O Petrus Hendrik “Dutch” Hugo (Survived)
Hurricane I R4221

When Pilot Officer ‘Dutch’ Hugo of No 615 Squadron first glimpsed the Messerschmitt 109, it was already too late to do much about it.  With ‘A’ Flight he had been orbiting at 25,000 feet, nearly five miles, above Kenley waiting for the enemy to come to him.  The Germans did, with breathtaking suddenness, from out of the sun.  Seemingly appearing from nowhere the Messerschmitt curved in behind Sergeant Walley on the starboard side of the formation, there was a flash of tracer and his Hurricane went down in flames.  Hugo swung his aircraft round to engage the attacker but another Messerschmitt hit him first: ‘There was a blinding flash and a deafening explosion in the left side of the cockpit somewhere behind the instrument panel, my left leg received a numbing, sickening, blow and a sheet of high octane petrol shot back into the cockpit from the main tank.  My stricken Hurricane flicked over into a spin and must have been hit half a dozen times while doing so, as the sledgehammer cracks of cannon and machine-gun strikes went on for what seemed ages.’

Without conscious effort Hugo turned off the fuel and opened his throttle, to empty the carburettor and so decrease the risk of fire.  The cockpit was awash with petrol and his clothes were saturated with it: the slightest spark would have turned him into a human torch.  Finally the engine coughed and spluttered to a stop, the propeller slowed until it was just flicking over in the slipstream, he switched off the ignition and the immediate danger of fire was over.  Hugo pushed the stick forwards and eased on rudder to pull out of the spin.  He was just straightening out when there was a colossal bang behind him and the now-familiar sound of cannon strikes.  ‘I had the biggest fright of my life – I knew I was completely incapable of movement as a particularly vicious-looking Me 109 with a yellow nose snarled about twenty feet past my starboard wing, the venomous crackle of his Daimler Benz engine clearly audible.  Round he came for another attack, and although I did everything I could think of, gliding without power has its limitations and the next moment earth and sky seemed to explode into crimson flame as I received a most almighty blow on the side of the head.’

Hugo came to, feeling sick and shaken, to find his aircraft spinning down again.  Through a red haze he saw that he was now at 10,000 feet, so he had time to take stock of the situation.  His head was aching savagely and the right side of his face felt numb.  When he touched it, he found a jagged gash from the comer of his right jaw to his chin.  His microphone and oxygen mask had been torn off his helmet and were now draped over his right forearm; the microphone had a bullet hole through it.  The cockpit seemed to be filled with a fine red spray; it took Hugo some time to realise that the cause was blood running down his chest being whipped up by the wind whistling through the holes in the sides of his cabin.  He slid back the canopy and gasped his lungs full of clean air.

The next thing Hugo knew was that the Messerschmitt was curving round for yet another attack.  Enough was enough, he decided to bale out.  Hugo rolled the Hurricane on to its back and pulled out the harness locking pin but, instead of falling clear, to his consternation he fell only about twelve inches – sufficient to project his head, arms and shoulders into the blast of the slipstream, which promptly slammed him back against the rear of the cockpit.  Before the astonished pilot could decide what to do next the Hurricane solved the problem for him by pulling through a half loop.  With a thump Hugo fell back into the cockpit, puzzled but at least able to reach the controls again.

Then he discovered why he had developed such a firm attachment to his aircraft: during the rush to strap in for the scramble take-off, sitting on his parachute in the seat, he had inadvertently taken one of his leg straps round the lever which raised and lowered his seat.  Now his own fate was tightly bound up with that of his Hurricane.  The next minutes saw Hugo, as he later described, ‘as busy as a one armed one-man bandsman with a flea in his pants’, trying to avoid the attentions of his persistent foe, finding and doing up his seat straps in readiness for the inevitable crash landing, and seeking out a suitable field.  Finally he put down his battered Hurricane in a meadow near Orpington, and was picked up and rushed to hospital.

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F/Lt. Humphrey a’Beckett Russell(Survived)
Hurricane I V7363

Nearly four miles above the exploding bombs Oberleutnant Ruediger Proske, piloting a Messerschmitt 110 of Destroyer Geschwader 26, dived down to head off a re-attack on the bombers by No 32 Squadron’s Hurricanes.

Squadron Leader Don MacDonell, leading the eight Spitfires of No 64 Squadron, had heard his controller, Anthony Norman, call ‘Bandits overhead!’ (as the low-flying Dorniers of the 9th Staffel swept over Kenley).  To MacDonell, orbiting at 20,000 feet, the call seemed a little strange: ‘Instinctively I looked up, but there was only the clear blue sky above me.  I thought “My God!  Where are they?”‘  Then he looked down and saw a commotion below, too far away from him to work out exactly what was happening.  ‘I gave a quick call: “Freema Squadron, Bandits below.  Tally Ho!”  Then down we went in a wide spiral at high speed, keeping a wary eye open for the inevitable German fighters.’

While MacDonell’s Spitfires were speeding down, the Messerschmitt 110s of the close escort had succeeded in getting between No 32 Squadron and the Dorniers.  So Flight Lieutenant ‘Humph’ Russell, 26, shifted his sight on to one of the twin-engined fighters wheeling in front of him.  He loosed off a 6-second burst and watched his incendiary rounds ‘walking’ along the fuselage of the enemy aircraft.  Several of the German rear gunners replied with accurate bursts, however, and the Hurricane was hit wounding Russell in the left arm and right leg.  Smoke began to fill the cockpit so he opened the hood, released his straps and leapt out.  Russell’s parachute opened normally but when he looked down he noticed that his leg was bleeding profusely.  In his right hand he still clenched the ripcord of the parachute and now he tried to use it as an improvised tourniquet.  It was useless: each time he knotted it, the stainless-steel wire simply unravelled itself.

In an air action events follow each other with great rapidity: almost everything described in this narrative, from the time the 9th Staffel had begun its attack on Kenley until now, had taken place within just five minutes: between 1.22 and 1.27 pm on that fateful Sunday afternoon.  The only events to continue outside this time span were the longer parachute drops: a man on a parachute falls at about 1,000 feet per minute and Russell, Gaunce, Lautersack and Beck had all baled out from above 10,000 feet.

After his unsuccessful attempt to improvise a tourniquet for his bleeding leg with his ripcord, while hanging from his parachute, ‘Humph’ Russell came to earth beside the railway track just outside Edenbridge.  A railwayman working on the line was the first to reach him and, as luck would have it, the man had just completed a course in first aid.  Delighted to have a chance to exercise his new-found skill, the man tore strips from the parachute and expertly bound up the wound, Russell was then rushed to the local hospital where he was treated by ‘an excellent doctor who saved my leg, and kept me supplied with Sherry all the time I was in hospital!’

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P/O Neville David Solomon (Killed in Action)
Hurricane I L1921

As the German aircraft reached the coast near Dover other British squadrons made contact.  Here the haze patches were quite thick in places and fighters of both sides blundered about seeking out the enemy.  Flight Lieutenant Harry Hillcoat of No 1 Squadron led two other Hurricanes in, to finish off a straggling Dornier of Bomber Geschwader 76; it plunged into the sea off Dungeness.  Then one of Hillcoat’s pilots, Pilot Officer George Goodman, spotted a Messerschmitt 110 flying low over the sea, streaming smoke from its left motor; probably it was a fugitive from No 56 Squadron’s snap attack a couple of minutes earlier.  Goodman went down after the German fighter, which jinked to avoid his fire but without success.  After Goodman’s first burst the left engine caught fire, after his second the right engine followed suit.  Then his Hurricane was hit, as a Messerschmitt 109 came round to attack from behind and forced the British pilot to look to his own survival.  Goodman hauled his fighter round in a steep turn to the right, and as he did so he caught a glance of the Messerschmitt 110 he had hit striking lie sea.  ‘In the turn I made half a mile on the Me 109 and tried to climb in order to bale out, but saw the Me 109 gaining rapidly on me so I pulled the plug and made for home with the enemy aircraft gaining I lightly,’ he later reported.  As Goodman pulled up over the coast at Rye the German pilot, probably running short of fuel, broke off the chase. 

For 28-year-old Sergeant John Etherington, flying a Hurricane of No 17 Squadron, the business of blocking the German withdrawal seemed rather like standing in the path of a cattle stampede.  Enemy aircraft of all types began streaming past, suddenly emerging out of the haze and then disappearing back into it.  At first it was not too frightening.  ‘As we moved out over the Channel four Messerschmitt 109s passed a little way under us going south.  We were there looking for bombers and left them alone; they took no notice of us,’ Etherington recalled.  Then Green Section, at the rear of the squadron formation, came under at-link from enemy fighters, followed by Blue Section; Yellow Section broke away to give the others support.  That left just Red Section continuing in search of enemy bombers: Squadron Leader Cedric Williams the squadron commander, Etherington, and Pilot Officer Neville Solomon weaving from side to side in the rear guarding their tails.  Solomon suddenly disappeared.  I never saw what happened to him, nor heard a peep from him.  It was his first operational mission and we never saw him again,’ Etherington remembered, ‘so I began weaving from side to side to cover the CO’s tail.  There were just two of us, and what seemed like hundreds of enemy aircraft.  I thought “How can we possibly get out of this?” And then, suddenly, the CO wasn’t their either.’ 

Cedric Williams had stumbled upon three Dorniers emerging out of the haze and went in to attack one of them, opening fire at 400 yards and closing in to 250 yards.  The Dornier’s left engine caught lire and he saw the bomber dive steeply away.  Then, as he was breaking away, Williams saw that he was being attacked by a Messerschmitt 109.  He pulled his Hurricane hard round to avoid the enemy fire, and three more Messerschmitts joined in.  After a hectic series of diving turns, which took him almost to sea level, Williams succeeded in throwing off the pursuit.  The Dornier he had attacked belonged to Bomber Geschwader 76 and one of those on board, war correspondent Hans Theyer, described how the aircraft had been attacked soon after leaving the coast of England: ‘We fired every gun that could be brought to bear, losing off magazine after magazine.  Then the “gangster” came in behind our fin, carefully, so that we could not fire at him.  He fired some bursts, then turned away.’  With the Dornier’s left motor badly damaged the German pilot, Unteroffizier Windschild, took the bomber down in h steep spiral turn and crash-landed near Calais.

After a frightening few minutes, both Williams and Etherington succeeded in joining up with some of the rest of the Squadron near Dover. 

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Sgt. Basil E.P. Whall – (Survived)
Spitfire I L1019 “G”

Dunlop Urie had got the twelve Spitfires of No 602 Squadron off from Westhampnett after the impromptu scramble.  Now, in position over Tangmere at 2,000 feet, he suddenly caught sight of a succession of Stukas swooping down on Ford airfield, five miles to the east.  Urie pave a quick call ‘Villa Squadron, Tally Ho!’ and led his squadron round to engage the bombers as they pulled out of their dives and passed low over the streets of Middleton-on-Sea and Bognor.  Urie himself fired bursts at five of the Stukas before he ran out of ammunition.  Sergeant Basil Whall, 21, singled out one of the dive-bombers, made four deliberate attacks on it and saw his tracers striking home.  The Stuka curved round towards the coast and Whall watched it go down and make a gentle landing on open ground behind Rustington, not far from the Poling radar station.

Away on the eastern side of the engagement Basil Whall had seen ‘his’ Stuka set down gently beside the radar station at Poling.  Then he opened his throttle and swung his Spitfire round to chase after the fleeing dive-bombers, like a hound after hares.  He rapidly overhauled Helmut Bode’s Gruppe moving away from Poling and, picking out one of the Stukas, closed in to 50 yards through accurate return fire and put a burst into it.  The dive-bomber burst into flames and crashed into the sea.  Whall’s Spitfire was also hit, however, and started to trail smoke.  Losing height, he hauled the wounded fighter round towards the shore.

From his vantage point at a searchlight on the coast to the east of Middleton-on-Sea, 23-year-old Lance Bombardier John Smith had watched the dramatic fight overhead and the German withdrawal.  Then he caught sight of a single aircraft about a mile out to sea, flying west.  It turned towards the coast, descending the whole time, then turned again and flew eastwards along the shore line.  By now Smith could see that it was a Spitfire, its propeller blades almost stopped and smoke trailing from the engine; the flaps were lowered but the undercarriage was up.  Obviously the pilot was bent on setting it down in shallow water.  With a splash the aircraft alighted, then the starboard wing struck a submerged groyne.  The aircraft leapt back into the air, spun horizontally through a semi-circle, and flopped into the sea going backwards.  Smith sprinted down the beach and waded out to the Spitfire, which had come to rest about 20 yards out in waist-deep water.  He scrambled on to the wing, to see the dazed pilot still in his cockpit: ‘I could not release the canopy from the outside but in no time at all the pilot opened up, unstrapped himself and with very little assistance from me (in fact I was in his way, if anything) climbed out.’  Sergeant Basil Whall of No 602 Squadron, having accounted for two Stukas and had his Spitfire shot up in the process, was safely down.

References

Franks, Norman L., Royal Air Force Fighter Command Losses of the Second World War – Volume I – Operational Losses: Aircraft and Crews 1939-1941, Midland Publishing, Leicester, England, 2000

Price, Alfred, Battle of Britain: The Hardest Day – 18 August 1940, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1980

Ramsey, Winston G., The Battle of Britain: Then and Now, After the Battle Magazine, London, England, 1980

Air Combat at 20 Feet, by Garrett E. Middlebrook – 1989 [Fred Moore]

“May you live unenvied,
and pass many pleasant years unknown to fame;
and also have congenial friends.”
– Ovid

“A tribute which bears full truth and honesty
will refuse to apply the conventional words of courage,
gallantry, heroism and bravery to the acts
which every fallen soldier was performing at the time of his death.
Some of our beloved comrades died embittered, scared and lonely deaths.
None ever “gladly” died because they were inspired by patriotism.
But they all died in the fulfillment of their duty.”
– Garrett Middlebrook

Like R.E. “Peppy” Blount’s We Band of Brothers, Garrett Middlebrook’s Air Combat At 20 Feet is an account of the experiences of a B-25 Mitchell “strafer” pilot in the Pacific Theater of War, an aspect of Second World War military aviation history that’s generated far fewer first-hand accounts than – for example – fighter combat in general, or, the Eighth Air Force’s aerial campaign against Germany.  Perhaps this has been because the magnitude of Pacific Air Combat involved smaller numbers of men and aircraft – and thus total cumulative losses of either – than strategic bombing in Europe; possibly because due to factors of distance, climate, and living conditions, the Pacific engendered less attention and both public and media awareness than air combat in Europe.  And, maybe this is because – well, just an idea – in light of the above, in the decades following WW II, veterans of “strafer” units felt less impetus to preserve their memories in written form, out of the perception that the public would simply not be that interested in their memoirs.  (I don’t know.  Well, like I said, just an idea!)

But, there isn’t necessarily a relationship between quantity and quality, for Garrett Middlebrook’s book is almost singular in its nature (Peppy Blount’s book sharing the other half of the literary spotlight), and definitely singular in its historical, emotional, and literary quality.  At over 400 pages long and dense with detail, the book’s foremost aspect to me is actually the depth and sensitivity of Middlebrook’s writing, which – though very rich in detail about his military experiences – in a not-so-subtle way, directs a greater focus on recollection of his fellow aviators, both those who survived, and those who did not, in what might be deemed an understandably cathatric fashion.  Two such individuals, among many, are Major Ralph Cheli and navigator 2 Lt. Louis J. Ritacco, both of whom were murdered while POWs.  Another notable aspect of the book is that it provides a platform for Garrett Middlebrook to present thoughts of a philosophical nature, in forms of either lengthy musings, or dialogues with fellow members of the 405th Bomb Squadron, about the cruelty and comradeship inherent to war, government, economics, and, human nature.  To give you an inkling of the depth of his thoughts, this post includes – below – some passages from the book.

As for the book’s cover art, well, it’s unusual.  Though the B-25s (on front and rear covers), and Japanese Oscar (on the rear cover; the covers don’t form a continuous painting) are aren’t perfectly proportioned compared to the appearance of the actual aircraft, the symbolism of both covers is very striking, as are the colors that were used to create these compositions.  They’re both simple and complex at once, and reminiscent of the style of “Grandma Moses” (Anna Mary Robertson Moses). 

My only criticism of the book is its paucity of photographs, for images of the many men mentioned within its pages would give the text even greater impact.  And, though the book does feature an image of Garrett Middlebrook’s crew, it’s strangely lacking a good image of Garrett – himself. 

This blog post rectifies that:  Here’s a portrait of Garrett sitting in the pilot’s seat of a B-25.  It’s U.S. Army Air Force photo “A47039 / 4002”, from Fold3.com.  The caption?  “Captain Garrett B. Middlebrook, Springtown, Texas, Fifth Air Force bomber pilot who has been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross by General MacArthur “for extraordinary heroism in action” in New Guinea.”

“Print received from B.P.R. (Air Forces Group), date unknown.”

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Some passages, with mention of Major Ralph Cheli…

Even though I could not conquer my fear of death,
I felt it would be a sin and a violation of my manhood not to fight to live,
even though I might only extend my life one day or one hour.
It would also have been a grievous sin if I did not give all I had by way of experience,
skill, innovative methods, leadership and calm, collective demeanor to my comrades.
Perhaps if I did all that I could to assuage their fears and motivate them to fight,
one more crew would survive.
Besides, it only made sense that I had a better chance to survive if I did all those things.
I thought of Cheli; I knew he had experienced fear,
but he had controlled it never allowing it to surface in an apparent way.
Perhaps, I thought, notwithstanding centuries of rhetoric about courage,
all it really amounted to was the concealment of personal fear.
In all probability, that was all Cheli had done –
concealed his fear and kept it hidden even when he was going down.

For over a year I had lived within a few yards of the jungle
together with the other crewmen in my squadron.
Although we were all male and far from home and civilization,
we did form a little social community.
Values still existed, morals still prevailed
and it was important to me that my comrades respected me.
Respect was not something they accorded to me ceremoniously;
instead, they showed it only if I earned it through leadership
and I had to prove that leadership again on each mission.

When I came to grips with myself,
I knew I could not lose their respect nor fail to perform my duties to them.
I admitted to myself at last,
that although I fought first for personal survival,
I was also duty-bound to the survival of the group. (pp. 401-403)

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Here’s the insignia of an original (early 1945) Australian manufactured 405th BS “Green Dragon” squadron patch (from Flying Tiger Antiques).

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Images of Garrett Middlebrook with two crews, from the book Sun Setters of the Southwest Pacific Area – From Australia to Japan: An Illustrated History of the 38th Bombardment Group (m), 5th Air Force, World War II – 1941-1946, As Told and Photographed by the Men Who Were There.  Most, if not all, of the men in these images are mentioned or described in Middlebrook’s book. 

Captions appear below both photos.

The crew of 1 Lt. Garrett Middlebrook.  Front, from left, are S/Sgt.Robert J. Kappa, engineer-gunner; Sgt. Robert T. Lillard, Jr., radio operator; Sgt. George R. Pizor, gunner.  Back, from left, are 1 Lt. Middlebrook, pilot; 2 Lt. Leonard D. Perry, bombardier; 2 Lt. Louis J. Ritacco, navigator, and an unidentified airman.  (George Pizor collection)

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Capt. Garrett Middlebrook and his crew.  Front, from left, are S/Sgt. Robert S. Emminger, gunner, and T/Sgt. Robert T. Lillard, Jr., radio operator.  Back, from left, are 1 Lt. Everett L. Moffett, navigator, Capt. Middlebrook, pilot, and Capt. William H. Tarver, pilot and aircraft commander.  (Garrett Middlebrook collection)

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1 Lt. Louis J. Ritacco.  He was a member of Major Williston Madison Cox, Jr.’s crew in B-25D 41-30118 (“Elusive Lizzie” / “Miss America”), which was shot down by anti-aircraft fire during a search and destroy mission near the town of Madang.  One member of the crew of six was killed when the plane was ditched, and the five survivors swam to nearby Wongat Island, where four (including Major Cox) were captured later that day.  Lt. Ritacco evaded capture for several days, but without food or water, was forced to give himself up to the Japanese.

Eventually, Major Cox was flown to the Japanese base at Rabaul, and from there placed upon a transport ship and taken to Japan where, at Omori POW camp, he spent the remainder of the war as a POW.

Lt. Ritacco and his three surviving crew members remained at Madang, where – with another member of the 38th Bomb Group who was also a POW, 2 Lt. Owen H. Salvage – they were murdered by their captors on August 17, 1943.

You can read much more about this story at the history of B-25D 41-30118 and its crew, at Pacific Wrecks. 

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This image shows Louis J. Ritaccco as an Army Air Force aviation cadet…

…and his tombstone, at Saint Mary’s Cemetry, Rye Brook, New York, as photographed by FindAGrave contributor James Mayer

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And, below is Williston M. Cox, Jr.’s Aviation Cadet portrait.

Williston Madison Cox., Jr. passed away in 1980.  Of all the members of the 38th Bomb Group taken prisoner by the Japanese, he was the only man to survive captivity and return to the United States. 

The above two portraits are from the United States National Archives’ collection “Photographic Prints of Air Cadets and Officers, Air Crew, and Notables in the History of Aviation”, about which you can read more, here.  The story of Major Cox and his crew is addressed at length by Garrett Middlebrook. 

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EPILOGUE

The painful irony of war is that, aside from human loss,
suffering and agony, it creates more problems than it solves.
The victors, becoming powerful and dominating,
form new rivalries more intense than those which existed with the vanquished.
The peace treaties which are imposed upon the vanquished
are enigmatic riddles bereft of reason and certain
only to permit clever and ambitious politicians to start the next cycle of international friction
as a means of maintaining power.
Of course, in the process the memory of the war dead from the previous war must be dimmed;
otherwise enthusiasm for the next war would never be tolerated.

But we combat veterans dare not let their memory fade,
for God help a nation which forgets its war dead.
Hence this chronicler acknowledges a debt of immense gratitude to
the fallen World War II Service men and women.

A tribute which bears full truth and honesty
will refuse to apply the conventional words of courage,
gallantry, heroism and bravery to the acts
which every fallen soldier was performing at the time of his death.
Some of our beloved comrades died embittered, scared and lonely deaths.
None ever “gladly” died because they were inspired by patriotism.
But they all died in the fulfillment of their duty.
Courage, valiancy, dauntlessness, heroism and bravery are words used by the living

to try to place the altar of patriotism on the field of battle.
It does not belong there and it will not accurately reflect the sacrifices of our fellow comrades
even if it is erected.

But the Shrine of Duty,
embossed with walls of shining gold,
stands proudly upon that hallowed ground.
It stands because our war dead performed their duty to their comrades
and their commitment to themselves.
We do them a grave injustice if we condemn them for lacking the qualities we have selected for them.
They gave all they had to give
and their names must forever be spoken softly and reverently or else evil will fall upon this country,
for if we do not revere our war dead, we are unworthy of their sacrifice. (pp. 449-450)

References

Middlebrook, Garrett, Air Combat at 20 Feet – Selected Missions From a Strafer Pilot’s Diary (A World War II Autobiography) [2nd Printing – Expanded Edition], Garrett Middlebrook, Fort Worth, Tx., 1989

Hickey, Lawrence J.; Janko, Mark M.; Goldberg, Stuart W., and Tagaya, Osamu, Sun Setters of the Southwest Pacific Area – From Australia to Japan: An Illustrated History of the 38th Bombardment Group (m), 5th Air Force, World War II – 1941-1946, As Told and Photographed by the Men Who Were There, International Historical Research Associates, Boulder, Co. (and) The 38th Bomb Group Association – (or) Albert A. Kennedy, Sr. (or) David Gunn, 2011

Day of Infamy, by Walter Lord – 1957 [Ben Feder] [Updated, with new detail…]

First created in December of 2017, this post – now updated – illustrating Walter Lord’s Day of Infamy has now been updated to include a portrait of the author (actually, John Walter Lord, Junior) – from the book’s cover, as well as the book’s interior/cover maps of Ford Island and, the Pacific Ocean route of Japan’s Pearl Harbor attack force.  I’ve also included the descriptive blurb from the book’s cover, and, quotes from book reviews also carried  within the cover. 

Though intended as popular literature, I t h i n k (?) that this book was the first serious study of the attack on Pearl Harbor prior to the publication of Gordon W. Prange’s At Dawn We Slept in 1981.

DAY OF INFAMY
By Walter Lord
Illustrated with Photographs

Sunday, December 7, 1941 – a day no one will ever forget – the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.  Now, a book has been written that does full justice to the epic events of that incredible day.

In DAY OF INFAMY Walter Lord traces, in brilliant detail, the human drama of the attack: the spies behind it; the pilots on the Japanese aircraft carriers; the crews on the stricken warships; the men at the airfields and bases; the Japanese pilot who captured an island single-handedly when he could not get back to his carrier; the generals, the sailors, the housewives and children responding to the attack with anger, numbness, and magnificent courage. 

DAY OF INFAMY is an inspiring human document, a thrilling account of how it is to live through history.  It is certain to be one of the most popular, important, and lasting books of our time.

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DAY OF INFAMY combines the careful scholarship and deep understanding of human nature that led to such comments as the following concerning Mr. Lord’s book, A Night to Remember:

“…a magnificent job of re-creative chronicling, enthralling from the first word to the last.”  The Atlantic

“The quality of Mr. Lord’s work seems all the more remarkable when one reflects on the fact that he has invented nothing, not even a single conversation.”  The Wall Street Journal

“…breathlessly exciting…with a suspense, a drive and a compelling reality which make it endlessly fascinating as well as brilliantly informative.”  Boston Herald

“…a panorama of many individuals, introduced to the reader by name, and of their briefly told acts, reactions and words.  The result, almost to the reader’s surprise, is a mosaic picture, clear in form and in the sense of movement and direction.  It took skill to do this…his timing is sure and the unity and continuity are never lost.”  Baltimore Evening Sun

“…the rarest of reader experiences – a book whose total effect is greater than the sum of its parts.”  The New York Times Book Review

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Rear cover…

Walter Lord brings to this story of December 7, 1941, the same restless search for truth – the same devotion to facts – that made A Night to Remember, his best-selling account of the Titanic, one of the truly memorable books of the decade.

In piecing together the saga of Pearl Harbor, Mr. Lord has traveled over 14,000 miles, has talked and corresponded with 577 of the people who were there.  He has obtained exclusive interviews with members of the Japanese attacking force.  He has spent hundreds of hours with the Americans who received the blow – not just the admirals and generals, but the enlisted men, the housewives, the children too.  He has spent weeks in Hawaii, going over each of the bases attacked.  He has pored over maps, charts, letters, diaries, official files, newspapers, and some 25,000 pages of testimony.

Mr. Lord’s meticulous research has uncovered many facts about that famous day that have never been known before.  The events and characters are presented in a new light – with detachment and restraint.  Stripped of legend, the human drama of Pearl Harbor is not a story of military defeat, but one of the truly great epics of American history.

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Photograph of Walter Lord from the book’s rear cover.  This is the same image which, in appreciably cropped form, appears in the Wikipedia entry for Lord.  The map before him appears to show Oahu.

We Die Alone, by David Howarth – 1956 [Albert Orbaan] [Updated post…]

Created in June of 2017, this is one of my earlier (earliest) posts.  It’s now been updated to include two more images…

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Colorized portrait of Norwegian Resistance hero Jan Sigurd Baalsrud (by Julius Jaaskelainen), from reddit.  You can read more about Jan Baalsrud’s life at his FindAGrave profile

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Author David Howarth (at left) and Jan Baalsrud.  Image from rear of book jacket. 

From book jacket…

“This amazing true story stands alone in the annals of World War II as a record of unbelievable hardship, blood-chilling excitement and super-human courage.

In the winter of 1943 twelve Norwegian saboteurs sailed for their native land in a fishing boat fitted with hidden armament.  Their orders were to destroy the great German airfield near the Arctic Ocean.  They had hardly touched shore when the Nazis, alerted by a Quisling, attacked and killed or captured all but one of the party.  Jan Baalsrud alone escaped – swimming to a tiny, frozen island, hunted like a beat by fifty of the enemy.  His only hope was to reach Sweden – eighty miles away.

What happened to Jan in the next two months is the story of a man who would not die – although his body was cracked by cold, although he was crippled, starved, delirious, blinded by snow, and lost in uncharted mountains. 

We die alone is a story which no one could believe if the central figure had not survived to prove it true, together with scores of witnesses who took part in his dramatic escape.  It is a story of desperate violence, warm friendship, charity and sacrifice, and of one man’s undying faith and triumphant spirit.”